The Devil's Apprentice
by Hannigrahamed
Summary: When uncertain about her professor's exceptionally private life, Clarice Starling finds out that she doesn't want to know what her dreams are telling her about Professor Hannibal Lecter. {AU Teacher/Student. Plausible romance, Clannibal fans. If not here, certainly in the sequel.}
1. Chapter 1

**Hello there! This is my first Fanfiction, and I have a niche for Teacher/Student scenarios, so I decided to put this little thing together. I have no idea where I'm going with this, but my plan is to have fun on the way. **

**This /is/ AU. But: If there are any large flaws regarding characterization, don't hesitate to speak up. I would greatly appreciate reviews so I can get an idea of how I'm doing. **

**I know that in the books Clarice attends the University of Virginia, but I imagine that Hannibal would most likely work at a college like Princeton. So… That's where he works in this story.**

**After watching all of the movies and getting a general feel of how Clarice and Hannibal work, I figured it would be extremely out of character to jump right into lovey-dovey/lemon work between the two. I'd like their relationship to develop over time. Be patient, dear readers! As they say, "All good things come to those who wait."**

**Disclaimer: This is AU and I own no characters, actors, or the University Princeton. (Though I'd love to.) There may be an occasional OC, but they won't alter the plot- I can assure you.**

**Ps: It'll start out slow, yes. That said, I'd really like to focus on characterization before plunging all the way in. ****The date, by the way, (assuming Clarice was about 22 in Silence of the Lambs) is as if she is 20 in this story. Just letting you all know!**

**Please rate and review if you'd get the chance.**

_**Bon appetite**_

_**- L**_

* * *

_((Flash Forward))_

"_You love me, I know you do." The woman's lustrous words caressed his ears like the finest of silk, leaving a sonorous note in the air. She sat upright in the leather seat, her eyes gazing into the Doctor's. As a result of the years of social training that Hannibal has taught his Clarice, she has successfully learned how to maintain eye contact and keep her words—for the most part—steady._

_The aged man simply looked into her eyes, maroon piercing through clear blue, his head slightly tilted to one side. A veil of unemotional placidity was draped over his face, her comment sparking absolutely no nerve endings inside of him. _

"_My dear Clarice, you already know the answer. I shan't elaborate on such an exhausted subject."_

"_You've taught me so much, Doctor. I… There's no other explanation," she exhaled and continued as if alone reversing lines to herself. "You value your time too much to teach me such a large amount of information and yet…to not be piqued by me. It doesn't add up."_

_Doctor Lecter couldn't help but emit a faint chuckle, amused by her audacity. _

_"Don't expect, Clarice. That will only leave you unsatisfied."_

* * *

((Present Time))

June 1st, 1989

The humid morning of June hung around Clarice like a silk shawl as she strode to Psychology, the final examination of the year being set for that class—which started in approximately ten minutes. By the time that she reached her classroom, her hair had gained a fair amount of volume due to the thick breeze, the chocolate brown locks ever so slightly fluffed. Her khaki shorts and forest green polo complimented each other, though not on purpose. The weather was treacherously muggy and whether or not her choice of attire was fashionable or not, it ranked low on her priorities. In seconds, the moderately windblown student arrived at her first class of the day: Developmental Psychology.

"Mornin,' Doctor Lecter," Clarice breathed with a nod toward her professor as she breezed into the classroom, her accent drawling the simple words before taking a seat at her desk which was in the front row.

The statuesque professor lifted his gaze upon hearing the door shut to reward his student with a hint of a smile, his normally raspy voice like velvet as he graded essays at his mahogany desk.

"Good morning, Ms. Starling."

* * *

The next few minutes that Clarice had before the majority of the class sauntered in were spent studying material that would most likely be on the exam. The past semester had, for the most part, been composed of how one would get inside the mind of their patient who had been through severe trauma. The subject chilled Clarice to the bone due to her own childhood experience, but it worked out to her advantage because she had a lead that the other students didn't when it came to knowledge on the subject.

Though, ever since taking the class, it had no avail when it came to her screaming lambs.

* * *

The test would be composed seventy five multiple choice questions, twenty five fill-in-the-blanks, and an essay explaining what one had learned during the year. For a top student like herself, she didn't fret about what the grade would turn out to be.

Doctor Lecter had always been a strict teacher according to the majority of his students, and so called 'mean' according to the not-so-focused students. For Clarice, he was no different than any of her other teachers. (Excluding the deep shade of maroon that swirled in his irises, looking like a heterogeneous mixture of blood and flowing lava. _That_ made him stand out.)

The clock struck seven thirty am and by then all of the students were seated, their binders and notepad on their desks accompanied by a freshly sharpened pencil in anticipation for the test. Low whispers could be heard of students worrying about their grade or knowledge base. After all, this was the last test of the year and it determined seventy percent of one's grade.

Hannibal paced the platform in the front of his classroom, a classic-fit Roberto Cavalli suit along with his slicked back hair, going over the general rules of test taking and the punishments for those who fail to follow. A few students couldn't contain their grins when their professor spoke of punishments, considering his piercing eyes which they all talked about; yet were secretly scared that he held some sort of power over them. (Little did they know of what he was capable of.) He shot a glance in the immature students' direction, and after a few seconds of spine chilling silence, went on with his lecture as if nothing had happened.

Clarice breezed through the multiple choice and fill-in section as if it were simple arithmetic. Although, when she reached the essay, her confidence soon faltered, finding it challenging to insert a persuasive element. She was far from a vein person; but in her future field of work, it would be a rarity to stumble upon such an aesthetically pleasing specimen as she, so she tended to rely on her looks-despite her insecurities-to persuade people. Point being, the essay was definitely a struggle. Forty five minutes passed and all that she had were the bare facts; the structure of the essay, not the meat of it. Her explanations were on tee and had no mistakes, but she needed to convince Doctor Lecter of what she had learned and how his class impacted her learning career.

By the time she reluctantly finished her essay, the testing time was over. The class handed in their papers and left class after being dismissed, all fretting about their scores.

* * *

That evening, presumably after Doctor Lecter began grading exams, Clarice received an email from her professor.

_Ms. Starling, _

_Only a few moments ago I graded the class' essays and I must say, I'm very pleased with your results, Clarice. _

_It's a shame that you couldn't explain how my class has or has not impacted your learning career. I was expecting more persuasion from a student like you. _

_That being said, I would recommend you to come to my classroom after the last bell tomorrow so that we may discuss your writing techniques. _

_Regards, _

_Doctor Hannibal Lecter, Ph.D._  
_Psychology Professor, Princeton University_

* * *

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all so much for the reviews, follows and favorites- They keep me on my toes!**

**FelineGrace: Oh my gosh, that means so much. Your comment is very much appreciated! I'll try and update as much as I can.**

**To the anons: Thank you! When it comes to Hannibal and Clarice's relationship in this particular story, I can assure you it's not just some fling. Plus, I feel like that would be obscenely out of character. We'll find out how their relationship blossoms soon enough, though, dear Anon.**

**Alright… Chapter two with a side of steamed vegetables and some jasmine rice to compliment the main course~ Comin' right up.**

**- L**

* * *

Clarice replied within minutes of receiving her instructor's email, having proofread the response numerous times. She wasn't nearly as formal as Doctor Lecter when it came to textual communication and, despite the short length of her response, she took the time to make sure it at least sounded like it would meet up to his etiquette standards.

_Doctor Lecter, _

_Thank you for your concern. I'd be grateful to take some constructive criticism in order to improve my work._

_I'll be there promptly after the bell tomorrow, Professor._

_Thanks again,_

_Clarice Starling_

Not waiting for a moment to pass, Starling sent the message and leaned back in her chair to swivel side to side in an attempt to think about how and what he'd teach her the following day.

_He has such an odd aura to 'm… Mysterious. But… Poised too. __His Maroon eyes… so intimidating. I can't even fathom the idea of being in a room alone with him. He carries 'mself well, though; right, Starling? ... Yeah. Y'ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout. It'll be alright. He's just a professor. Don't over think the things that could go wrong._

* * *

That night, Clarice fell asleep to the false sound of crisp ocean waves crashing against sand, the sound produced from her hi-tech alarm clock; plus some lavender pillow mist to help soothe her nerves.

Nerves. The wild things that seemed to keep Clarice as strung out as she was. No matter the situation, the person, the scenery… Always rousing some sort of tension in her petite frame. Ever since her father passed, everything and everyone seemed to depend on her, so she grew accustomed to having other people's weight on her shoulders. She always pulled through, but the process was not always no nice. Anxiety from dreams, anticipating the possible outcome of a crime, being criticized by someone… All triggers for her terribly sensitive self.

In short form: Clarice was broken. What she loved most was taken away from her at such a developmentally crucial age, and what she yearned to save continued to scream in her dreams. No one was saved. All lambs were eventually slaughtered for Clarice.

* * *

She slept peacefully, for the most part. The sky was pitch black and the wind moaned her to bed, helping her rest until about two am.

Once the clock struck two twenty one am, her body awoke to moist bangs stuck to her forehead, heart racing horrifically fast. Still half asleep, she propped herself up on her elbows and noticed that both the sheets and blankets were in a puddle on the floor-along with her pillows-and that a thick film of sweat enveloped her body. Her frame jolted awake in a spasm when she realized that she was no longer dreaming, resulting in her forearm hitting against one of the bed posts.

Starling groaned in displeasure, knowing that a bruise would form soon enough, and slowly opened her eyes to allow her pupils to adjust to the darkness. For a few moments, she laid in silence, still recovering from the close encounter of death that occurred in her dream. She eventually turned onto her side in order to look at the clock, red numbers brightly flashing in her eyes.

"Two… Thirty three..? Damn…" she murmured and rolled over to turn on the dim lamp, sitting up to gather her sane thoughts once more. Another few moments of complete silence passed, followed by a five or so minute session of stretching. She then rubbed her tired eyes and laid back down to practice some breathing exercises.

Her eyelids slowly closed and she inhaled, humid air travelling through her body, soon followed by a deep exhale—very audible.

After a few moments of breathing to recover from the nightmare, Clarice turned off her bedroom light and eventually drifted back into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

* * *

The following morning had slid by without any hitches, considering Clarice had always been a morning person.

Coffee in hand and scarf cradling her neck, she was off to her Classic American Literature course.

When that hellhole was done with, she rushed to her final class of the day: The Sociology of Crime and Punishment. One of her favorite classes, it touched on the more sensitive areas of Sociology courses that most teachers skimmed over. The subject helped fuel Clarice's determination to get inside the heads of criminals—what was necessary to evolve into a well-rounded FBI agent.

The sound of the bell was bittersweet when it rung. On one hand, Clarice wanted to stay in the class and relish the abundant information that constantly flowed into her curious mind, the theme that day being Napoleon Bonaparte, but on the other hand she wanted to know what Doctor Lecter needed to speak with her about.

Such a naive individual; Clarice.

After a few moments of packing up, she headed to her Psychology teacher's homeroom.

* * *

Just as she had attempted to knock on the professor's door, he called for her to enter.

"Come in, Clarice," Professor Lecter stated in a velvet tone, laced with rasp.

Once again in slight awe of his senses, she nodded subserviently and closed the door behind her, eyes travelling around the area. It looked more like a home's study than a teacher's office.

The room was painted a light olive color, mahogany wood to compliment it. Rays of sunlight passed through translucent curtains which draped over French style windows, giving the room an eloquently polished Gothic style. Pieces of artwork—presumably his own—hung in frames, their black and white color scheme complimenting the olive well. Despite the rather small size of the room, the arrangement of sitting chairs, globe, and desk all blended together to give the appearance of a larger area.

"Afternoon, Doctor Lecter," Starling stated politely-her accent consciously repressed-and stood with her hands behind her back as if not wanting to intrude. What she didn't realize was that her rather closed off body language wasn't polite in the slightest.

Hannibal sat at his desk, arms folded neatly in his lap. His lips wore a grin for his expected guest, hair slicked back as per usual.

"Good afternoon, Clarice. Please, take a seat," his hand gestured to the leather seat across from him.

Almost too soon, Clarice sat in front of him and put on a smile.

"About your email-" she begun.

"False." The professor interjected before Clarice could elaborate.

"'M sorry?" Starling's accent decided to intervene, considering she was caught off guard. _God, Clarice. Keep it together!_

"'M…'" Lecter discreetly mocked. "I don't need to help you on your essay writing, Clarice. Two things," he leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen in his hand. "Essay writing is not number one for the FBI requirements, let's be honest here. Second," he set the object down on his desk, "the essay was written well. No large changes need to take place."

Starling furrowed her brows for a moment, processing the information. _My essay was written well? Well… That's an accomplishment…! But… Why would I be here? _She couldn't help but look completely confused.

"Yes, I know." Hannibal emitted a soft chuckle as he interrupted her thought process. "Why did I invite you to join me? Oh, _Clariiice_…" he swiveled in his chair, just enough to move, but not enough to distract Starling from his piercing gaze. "I 've noticed that your body language has changed lately. And you're not interacting with students unless asked to. Something has been going on in your mind. I can sense it." His words simply lingered in the air.


	3. The Assumption

**Ahhhhh! Thank you all **_**so**_** much for your reviews. I feed off of them. -hearts-**

_**Forewarning! This chapter is very short. I only added it here because some key things in this chapter will help build up to the main plot. Just hang tight, alright? We can stick through this!  
**_

**I'm terribly sorry for the late update, but I'm currently in the mountains. (Low service) I'm afraid it'll be that way for quite a while due to my hectic summer schedule.  
**

**After a few days of contemplation, I finally figured out where I'd like this story to go – so I hope it begins to have at least a little bit more 'flow' from now on. (!) **

**A whole lot of love, **

**-L **

Clarice pauses for a few moments and looks at the Doctor with the slightest trace of hesitancy, not sure if telling her teacher that she has gruesome strings of dreams involving him is her best decision. Would she cross the student/teacher boundary line by telling him? She swiftly moves a strand of hair from her forehead and tucks it behind her unpierced ear.

_He's the one who asked, anyway…_ She convinces herself.

"Well, I had a dream, Doctor," she starts with her head tilted up, her confidence yet to have a faulted this day. "What one might consider a nightmare, actually," Clarice corrects herself and nervously – yet discreetly – fiddles with her slender fingers.

* * *

The doctor's study seems as if it is shrinking by the moment, the student having to make a large effort to not panic. If one were to suffer as Clarice does with her dreams, they would realize how much of a toll it takes on her thoughts even when out of a dream-like state.

Clarice's dreams follow her everywhere she goes.

* * *

"Pray tell, Miss Starling. You know how us psychiatrists can help with things like this," he replies, each word spoken both clearly and precisely – no trace of any sort of strong emotion whatsoever. Merely maroon irises gazing into long horizons of endless blue ocean in hers.

"More than one dream, though. A series one would say… But you were in 'em." Hannibal tilts his head, clenching his jaw as her accent slurs. "It was so odd. Out of the blue, I guess," the petite student smiled faintly as if the gesture would cover up her nervousness.

Clarice Starling had never felt so nervous in front of someone like this. Her nerves kicked in during and after her dreams, yes, but not because fear for a particular person. Never in public like this. This terrible sensation is one she hopes goes away - fast.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter of Princeton University brought fear from deep inside of Clarice's bones. His mere presence sent chills down her spine.

Not because of arousal, no – not that.

Because of the way he carries himself. The way he eloquently speaks his well-harvested words. Because of the way his maroon eyes compliment his slicked back hair. The way his cat-like teeth have a slight incline due to his European ancestry. … His whole aura seems like a false façade. As if he is hiding something from everyone else.

This only motivates Clarice further. She wants to get close enough to the professor so that she finds out what his secret is.

If he has one.

"Interesting," he gently urges her with a baritone sound of approval. "I'm listening, Miss Starling."

"You see, Doctor, when I was a little girl-"

* * *

Clarice explains her childhood as best as she can during the course of their lengthy conversation. From her colorful young years, her father's demise, and all the way up to her present self at Princeton University, Clarice doesn't miss a detail. Lecter is intrigued, but does not let it show. He simply intervenes once, after Clarice's mention of her father's death, to grab each a cappuccino – considering the time when he fetches the drinks is around ten in the evening, past his sleeping hour. He returns promptly and they aimlessly chat about schoolwork and essay writing for the next hour before Starling decides it's time to leave. Their meeting ends around eleven in the evening.

* * *

Starling slept terribly that night. She dreamt of a cold-blooded killer.


	4. The Realization

**Thank you, again, for all of your support and reviews. (!) You're all so wonderful. (Especially for sticking with me through this despite my terrible updating skills!) I'm really sorry that it keeps taking so long, but the plot is still swinging from side to side in my mind and I want you guys to read a solid story. Not an impromptu one. **

**Much love**.

June 7th, 1989. (The evening before the last day of school.)

A trembling hand reaches to turn on the water faucet as its owner coughs into her free arm, scalding water beginning to spew from the piping. The cotton pajamas, which are already soaking from panicked sweat, begin to clump together as each garment falls ungracefully onto the laminate floor. Well-manicured feet softly enter the shower but flinch when the water reaches them, having to wait a few moments for the body to adjust. The taut woman enters the shower and leans toward the water source, in desperate need to relax her tensed muscles.

The nightmare strikes Clarice at her most vulnerable moment in sleep, the time when she's too deep into the façade of her imagination to know real life from fantasy.

_Men swearing, sunshine turning to darkness, empty meat packages sitting in a pile, and dead lambs whose screams were silenced lay lifeless and hopeless on the killing floor. Men are rejoicing as Clarice screams for help. Sweat pours down her pale, colorless forehead and her cries leave her breathless as she kneels next to the lambs. _

_One man, who's tall and phantom-like, merely watches as she cries for the lambs' revival. His maroon eyes, bright like fresh blood, stare into her soul and pierce it ruthlessly. He walks up to the lambs and pulls out a curved knife – which Clarice will later know as his harpy – and slits all of their throats with a grim smirk. As if forced to. _

_Blood spews everywhere. It soaks the woman's clothes and travels up her body until it suffocates her into a bloodied pool of death. _

_Clarice's cries, just like the lambs – never answered. _

The shower feels so good as it rinses death's blood off of her shoulders. Shows her that she's alive, fully alive and…somewhat well. She attempts to breathe steadily, but to no avail. Minutes pass and the steam from the shower once more makes Clarice drowsy. Wet skin steps from the shower and presses against the wall for support. She dries herself off and walks to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Seconds, minutes, and hours pass and in what seems like no time, it's six am. Two hours before her class starts. The psychology and criminology major sighs at the clock and curls up in a fuzzy blanket on the couch, clutching the fabric close. She lets her eyelids close and decides to take a small nap before getting ready.

The bell rings and Clarice is already in class, looking just as pulled together as she would with even a full nights rest – which…doesn't say much.

Classes fly by without a hitch, but Professor – _Doctor_ – Lecter acts differently. Nothing noticeable to a student who doesn't spend extra curricular time with forty three year old, but Starling senses something is amiss. He looks strangely fulfilled.

_The twenty five year old moans in agony as he writhers against restraints. His chest heaves and breathing begins to hitch as his eyes search with a glimmer of hope through the dark. A smirk is plastered onto the forty three year old's lips. His eyes adjust to the darkness well and he senses fear on the other man's scent. _

_Adrenaline levels rise and he swiftly pulls out his harpy on one fluid move, his body mere inches from the victim. The victim who just recently murdered his wife and mother of his two children because he was under the influence. That one. _

_Cries echo through the shed and blood seeps from the young man's blue eyes. "Eyes who don't deserve to see his life or children again." Slits are made vertically through the man's eyes and screams of pure pain are echoed for what seems like miles. His body shakes with salty, oh so salty tears which seep into the slits in his blind eyes. Pleads are heard, but no mercy is given as warm blood leaks from his lifeless neck._

"Doctor Lecter? May I come in?" A hopeful Clarice Starling knocks rather sheepishly on her professor's door.

The Doctor chuckles silently and allows her to come in, telling her, per usual, to 'please, take a seat.'

Outwardly strong but internally frazzled Clarice explains her dream in vivid detail to the man, who appears to be the subject of her dream. His slicing of the lamb's throats particularly sticking out in her mind. She recalls the events animatedly which truly entertains the Professor.

The way her sapphire-like eyes nearly glaze when she remembers a negative event and the way her peachy lips tighten into a thin line when posed a thought provoking question from her professor captivates his attention. She, appearing so strong, so _unbreakable _on the outside, is so tortured by her memories. Her possible parallel. The thought is fascinating for someone like his self.

No, not her suffering. Doctor Lecter is no sadist when it comes to Clarice or any other woman, but he does know when someone has talent. Her past few dreams having paralleled his past few murders. Very engrossing, indeed. He sits back in his chair and nods as she talks, successfully covering a smirk.

**As always, comments and reviews are wonderful. 3 **


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